


To Dance With the Stars

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: F/M, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An isolated retreat provides a romantic interlude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Dance With the Stars

  
 

 

Far off in the distance the horizon glowed with the final hues of the sunset, deepening into a velvety blue vista dotted with diamond like spheres.  The stars were a crowning achievement in this pristine setting; they provided a majestic backdrop to a lone tent perched atop the ice in this most distant of locations.

Two people inhabited this canvas castle, an abode of unabashed luxury that remained, from the outside, simply a tent.  Within its interior the pair found themselves in need of nothing, finally alone and safe from prying eyes.

The man was blond and fair, in his early thirties; the woman, slightly older but not discernibly so, was also blonde.  It was her wealth that had afforded this exotic adventure, and although he was used to both the exotic and adventurous in life, this was something altogether different.

“I had no idea that this was what you meant when you suggested we get away from the city.  Really Amy, what possessed you to come here?”

Illya Kuryakin was taking a chance on more than love with this woman.  She, the inimitable and much loved aunt (by marriage), of his partner Napoleon Solo, would not be commended for taking on the Russian as a lover.  She had been smitten with the self-possessed Kuryakin from the first moment she had heard of him, and once seen, she defied anyone to deny her the opportunity to discover what and who he was.

“My darling Illya, I told you we needed to be away from everyone, and what could be more away than this?”

She swept her elegant arm in a wide arc, indicating the frozen tundra beyond their cozy little love tent.  Of course it was daring and delightfully decadent of her to be found like this, but she loved spoiling this child of Czars.  Despite his protests, Amy Trudeau   imagined that Illya was, indeed, descended from those nobles and therefore, inexplicably and to her great delight, even more exotic than her wildest dreams of him.  And, she admitted only to herself, dreams were intended to be wild.

“Besides, isn’t it thrilling to be so vulnerable to the elements while pursuing our primal desires?’

Illya scoffed at the romanticism implied in Amy’s question.  Vulnerable was never desirable, nor was it ever thrilling.  To a man in his profession, it was the fastest pathway to oblivion.

“You are incorrigible.’

The Russian kissed the perfect nose, the pouting lips…

 “Oddly that is an unexpected aphrodisiac for me, although this latest impulse of yours might have put us at risk.  People do sometimes wish me less than good tidings, Amy.”

“You’re frowning my love.  Tell me the truth, do you not simply adore being here… with me?”

Ah, that last was the important part.  Yes, he loved being with Amy.  Illya disliked doing this behind Napoleon’s back, but then again, he didn’t want to think about his partner or the barely disguised disapproval.  Amy was his world at present, and Illya would have no part of anything else except her, here … this moment in time.

“I am beside myself with joy, or can you not recognize it...”

Illya groaned with pleasure at the touch of Amy’s deft fingers as she gently explored his _enthusiasm_.  Between sheets made of silk, atop layers of down, the lovers lay entwined as hands roamed in search of naked flesh.

Without thought, Illya found the center of Amy’s vulnerability, first with sensitive fingers that gently teased until she arched, breathless from his touch, delirious even now.  His lips brushed across her face, feathering her eyes, her cheeks … until finally her mouth searched for him; wanton, desperate.  Illya opened his mouth to Amy’s, their tongues dancing, unyielding as each sought some type of dominance.

Illya felt her touch, stroking from back to front; caressing and pulsating until his eyes threatened to recede into his reeling brain.  The pleasure was unspeakable, the pathway unmistakable.  He followed her until, like the door to Shangri-La, Amy opened and granted him entry into paradise.

Amy cried out his name in rhythm to his thrusts, over and over until her mind accepted that this act was Illya.  Illya was love. Illya was completion. Illya was all she wanted.  Shuddering and exhausted, the golden man above her responded to each syllable, his intensity propelled by the sound of Amy’s voice as she chanted his name.  He paused… not yet, not yet … wait … breathe … kiss … caress …

Slowly, Illya began again … gently, as Amy smiled up at him expectantly.  She craned her neck upwards, catching his bottom lip between her teeth… He thrust harder, she cried out as her fingers sought his hair now tangled with sweat…

Together.  He spilled into her as she rose beneath him, arched and exploding. 

No one heard their cries of surrender as a shooting star sped past in the night sky.


End file.
